


From Nightmare To A Dream

by Basmathgirl



Series: Whispers Over The Dark Side [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, H/C bingo, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 08:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11756256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basmathgirl/pseuds/Basmathgirl
Summary: Set somewhere near the beginning of series 10, leaving the TARDIS hasn’t been all hearts and flowers for Donna and David's son Tiro.Sequel toOn the Other Side of the Dark





	From Nightmare To A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** just because I fancied writing some more about Tiro, doesn’t mean I was trying to steal the other characters.  
>  **A/N:** written for the [hc_bingo]() challenge prompt "torture"

Tiro lifted his aching head and waited for the steadying image of the TARDIS to stabilise, knowing that something monumental was coming. And yet he could hardly raise his hopes above mere surprise. 

Typical, he thought. 

Seconds later the door slowly opened and the Doctor peered out into the dark and dank stone room. He did a double take when he spotted Tiro crumpled on the floor. “What are you doing down there, boy?”

“Just hanging around,” Tiro drowsily jested, rattling the laced chains that bound his hands and feet to the wall behind him. “Sorry I haven’t visited you lately, Father, but I’ve been a bit tied up.”

The Doctor scowled as he got closer and bent down to rest on his haunches; using the opportunity to stare into Tiro’s face. “You’ve changed quite a bit,” he commented. “There are lots of crinkles around your eyes.”

“It’s called growing older,” Tiro retorted bitterly. “Us hybrids tend to do that eventually, if you remember. Can we do the whole family reunion bit once you’ve got me out of these shackles?”

Raising the sonic screwdriver from his voluminous pocket, the Doctor effortlessly broke his son free but was concerned enough to run a hand over Tiro’s skin beneath the tattered clothing on his back. “What did they do to you?” he hissed in anger.

Wincing at the gentle touches, Tiro did his best to act nonchalant. “Do you want it in chronological order or alphabetical order?”

“Order of importance will do to start with,” the Doctor replied, appalled at the filthy, broken state of his child. 

“Burns, slicing, probing, bloodletting, biopsies, bruising and loads of other ‘B’s,” Tiro gasped as the Doctor took hold of his wrist and rotated the joint to assess his ease of movement. 

“They will pay for this,” the Doctor sternly proclaimed. “Every last one of them. What was the excuse they used?”

“The usual,” Tiro whimpered. “I’m different, I act weird, I have no wife or travelling companion, I’m all on my own.”

“Those are not good enough reasons to torture you like this,” the Doctor remarked. “And you need not have been travelling on your own. You could have stayed with me.”

“While you were drooling all over River Song again? No thank you,” Tiro snapped. “I was in the way of your honeymoon plans on Darillium, so I did the decent thing and left.”

Lifting his hands, the Doctor tenderly cradled Tiro’s head to say, “I missed you.”

“No you didn’t,” Tiro argued. “Look at how long it has taken you to search for me. I spent decades living in Nan’s house in Chiswick, pretending I was a normal human being, feigning ignorance of the alien invasions attempts going on around me. But I knew that one day I would end up here in the Tower of London, at the mercy of some despot. It was inevitable they would discover me.”

“Luke Smith and Mr Smith should have shielded you.”

Tiro laughed emptily and forced himself away from the Doctor’s hands. “They are long gone. All of them. I even tried to find Captain Jack Harkness, without much success.”

“He is out on a space cruiser somewhere,” the Doctor idly informed him. “Why aren’t you trying to get up?” he more forcefully wondered. “You need to move about.”

“I can’t,” Tiro brokenly admitted; his head slinking further downwards. “It’s my legs. Too much nerve damage, I’m afraid. Sorry, Father. I have failed again.” 

“Nardole!” the Doctor called out, standing abruptly. “Bring out a wheelchair!”

A squat, bald man with a kindly face appeared at the TARDIS doors to ask in exasperation, “Where will I find one of them?” Nardole then squinted at Tiro whilst wishing he had remembered his glasses. “Oh. I’ll go and look,” he muttered and then disappeared back in to the interior. 

“You can’t get decent help anymore,” the Doctor commented to Tiro. “We’ll get you into the med bay and soon have you fixed. Nardole stole a wonderful robotic body on Darillium, should you need one to get about. Have you eaten? I’ll go and tell Nardole to get you something…”

With that, the Doctor ran in a waddling mode into the TARDIS, leaving Tiro once more on his own.

“Yes, Father,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve missed you too.”


End file.
